


sunk but sinking

by jaskierposting (flamboyantlycriminal)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Horror, Nightmares, Nonhuman!Jaskier, Slow Burn, Violence, creature!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:08:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamboyantlycriminal/pseuds/jaskierposting
Summary: He wakes up with a tightness in his chest, the reason for it revealed as soon as he opens his eyes. It’s not light yet, not exactly, but the fire is long gone and the cold had enough time to settle in his bones. He’s aching more than most mornings, but maybe it’s just the weather’s fault. Jaskier grunts and pushes Geralt’s hand off his chest, the unreasonable panic not quite evaporating from him at the same speed as the details of his nightmare.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

He can see Geralt’s eyes all too clearly in the darkness that surrounds them, the far away stars and the waning moon the only sources of light in the small clearing. He doesn’t count the barely glowing, dark red remains of their camp fire, those do nothing but distract. He’s not sure what they distract him from, but he knows there’s an odd hatred for them growing within him. It’s either the quiet growl or the sudden sharp pain that pull him away from his thoughts. Instinctively, he grasps at his neck, as if wanting to stop the blood from pouring out with just his hands. Unsurprisingly it does nothing to help the situation, the sight of his own hands covered in blood, his clothes soaked and dripping, the mud forming from it seeping into the ground in amounts unthinkable before… He feels panic burst through every nerve in his body like he’s struck by an ice cold lightning. That’s when he’s struck with the silver blade again, this time the cold metal sinking into the back of his neck and he can’t even register the pain before everything goes black. 

He wakes up with a tightness in his chest, the reason for it revealed as soon as he opens his eyes. It’s not light yet, not exactly, but the fire is long gone and the cold had enough time to settle in his bones. He’s aching more than most mornings, but maybe it’s just the weather’s fault. Jaskier grunts and pushes Geralt’s hand off his chest, the unreasonable panic not quite evaporating from him at the same speed as the details of his nightmare. 

“Sounded like you were having a really bad dream.”

One could say that. 

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Jaskier asks with a hint of mockery in his voice, hoping that it will help him shed the lingering fear. 

He’s met with a hum, Geralt only acknowledging his words but not commenting further. Good, he definitely doesn’t want to hold on to the image. Nor to the feeling. 

Within an hour they have broken their fast and packed the camp, ready to set on their way. The sun’s floating just above the horizon, its light bringing some of the warmth he’s been craving so badly. As he walks at a steady pace and watches the nature around stir into life, he forgets about the dream altogether. There is no room for such horrors in broad daylight, there is only awe and beauty and adventure. Before he knows it, he’s occupied with silly rhymes and a springy, lively tune. 

He finds himself unreasonably tired even before the shadows begin to lengthen. It can easily be explained by the restless sleep and an early wake up, but he stops himself from complaining for the first few hours. Geralt says if they push themselves they can reach some village not too long after nightfall. The idea of a proper bed and solid walls sheltering them is enough to keep Jaskier going even despite a bone deep weariness. He imagines himself crawling onto Roach’s back and taking a nap as he’s carried, the idea bringing a small smile to his lips. When his smile is noticed and questioned, he changes the scenario slightly and starts to pester Geralt to be the one to carry him instead of his horse. To his endless disappointment, the witcher only laughs at it as if it’s not even worth considering.  
Darkness seeps into the world around them slowly, only enveloping them in near blackness as they enter a road leading into the small village through neatly set up grain fields. The night isn’t as cold as the previous one, but without the protection of the woods they find themselves at the mercy of a softly blowing wind. It’s not as biting as it could be and Jaskier decides to focus on small blessings, toying with a wheat stalk he picked moments ago. Fields mean they’re close and the thought invigorates him. 

“I’m starving.” He complains, for at least a fifth time since they last ate.

“I know.” Geralt replies, with very little compassion. “You’ll survive till we make it to the inn.”

“And how sure are you that there even is an inn there?” Jaskier complains, suddenly worried that there might not be an inn to rest at. He decides not to question Geralt’s certainty that he wouldn’t die, or at the very least faint from malnutrition at this time. Maybe he should faint, that definitely would raise the odds of being carried the rest of the way… Jaskier sighs in delight as he can make out the shapes of the first buildings in the distance, the village looking like the most inviting place on the continent just by the virtue of existing in close proximity. It still takes them half an hour to actually reach the edge of it, but that doesn’t matter. 

There isn’t an inn in the village, but there is a tavern and there is a room they can rent, so Jaskier decides to focus on small blessings once again. One room means one bed and in turn that means plenty of borrowed heat and more money for food and that’s really close to perfect. Especially since more money for food means no more dish of the day which somehow always is a borderline disgusting fish stew, or fried fish, or baked fish, or marinaded fish… Travelling by the coast meant he ate more fish than he cared to and he was going to splurge on something else. Finally.

The crowd is tough but the performance gets him enough to get pleasantly tipsy without further lightening his purse and Jaskier is more than thrilled to devour a dinner that consists of absolutely nothing that came from any body of water. Slightly buzzed, almost sated by the meal and ready to sleep he stumbles into the room and nuzzles into the sheets, his face pressed into a pillow a little too lumpy and a little too worn out for his tastes, but he’s out like a candle, sighing happily as he slips into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt’s eyes are terrifyingly pitch black, but as he spots the thin, golden rings around his dilated pupils, Jaskier is reassured they’re not that way because of a potion. Which could be bad news just as well as good news, but when in doubt cross your fingers and hope for the best. That’s worked miraculously well for him so far. He looks around, thinking naively maybe he could spot whatever it was that made the witcher so alert. The night is suspiciously bright despite there only being a thin crescent of the moon plastered among the stars. He could swear he can make out the details of the trees in the distance but he can’t see anything moving in a way that would explain… this. He hears Geralt unsheathe a blade and he scrambles from his bedroll, getting a little tangled in his thin blanket but finally he’s on his feet, ready to run or hide, depending on Geralt’s instructions. And then he realises Geralt’s eyes are glued to him, following his every move instead of focusing on some nocturnal creature. He feels a twinge of discomfort, his thoughts racing too fast for him to recognise and cling to even one of them. He looks around and notices the fire dying out, the wood only offering a uselessly faint glow and the sight makes him frown. He’s seen a hundred burnt out camp fires, but there is something unsettling about this one. The pain shoots through him in one merciless wave and the rather primal growl rings in his ears as he steps back, his own hands wrapping desperately around his neck. He can feel the blood flowing between his fingers, spilling all over him, trickling down his chest. He tries to call out in pain and horror, feeling much like a panicked, wounded animal, but the only sound he can produce is a sickening gurgle. That and the feeling of the now soft, damp ground beneath his feet make him freeze. He doesn’t stand a chance. He can’t run, can’t hide, he’s about to bleed out and die in a clearing in the middle of an unnamed forest. The second attack is almost a mercy, the knife stabs into the back of his neck and Jaskier whines as it all goes to black. 

The pained whine is still embarrassingly there, maybe a reason why he woke. It’s more likely the nightmare, cutting off at the same moment time and time again. They’ve left the village a few days ago, each night proving worse than the one before it and for once it has nothing to do with the sleeping conditions. He can feel Geralt’s gaze on himself. What is it this time? Worried that he’s suffering? Annoyed that he’s up before dawn again? Jaskier wonders when it will become more black than gold, suspicious, inquisitive in the worst possible sense. He pushes the thought away and starts folding his blanket, not looking over to meet the other’s gaze. He hopes it’s worry in the witcher’s eyes, but what if it’s not? He’s not ready to find out. 

As they walk, Jaskier finds himself fumbling with his clothes a lot more than what even he would consider a normal amount. No matter what he does, he’s still painfully uncomfortable. At first he suspects it’s just the way a seam rubs against his neck, but the more he tries to fix it, the worse it feels. 

“If you want to change, we can just stop for a moment.” Geralt offers, slightly amused by the sight of the bard beside him. 

Jaskier shoots him a cold glare, the discomfort stealing his sense of humour. Hell’s frozen over if he’s the one chastising the witcher for a tease. And with a look and not his words! 

“I don’t want to change.” He manages just before stopping in his tracks, trying to regain composure. As he stands in the shade of a particularly branchy oak, the annoying sensations ease and Jaskier lets out an exasperated sigh. 

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, stopping as well and watching his friend closely. 

Well, what isn’t? 

“It’s just… itchy.” Jaskier doesn’t clarify that the itch feels like it’s coming from underneath his flesh, like it’s eating his bones away. 

“If Roach ends up with fleas because of you…” Geralt replies, oddly playful in his tone. 

“It’s not fleas!” He argues with a shake of his head, thoroughly offended by the suggestion. Fleas. Gods, he almost wishes it was fleas. At least he understands what a flea’s deal is. This? This is just annoying and unsettling and offers no clues.

“It better not be.” Geralt teases again and resumes the trek, but at a slightly slower pace than before, as if making sure the other can catch up with ease. 

The sun and the warmth bring the unpleasant sensations back, but Jaskier clenches his jaw and decides to bear it until it becomes unbearable. He hopes it doesn’t become unbearable too soon though and for once his hopes are met with a smile from whatever entity that looks over him. As they walk deeper into the forest the delicate lace of sunlight and shade cast by young, fresh leaves becomes more and more tightly knit. He breathes easier once out of direct light and soon there even is a smile returning to his face, his gait becoming more effortless and youthful with every step. He chuckles to himself and composes a short little thing about a wretched noonwraith reaching out to pull a perfectly innocent traveller into her dance of the damned. For a moment his heart and his body are both wonderfully light and he skips over an old, twisted root while he sings, repeatedly cursing out the evil spirit for stealing the lives of men foolish enough to join her deathly frolic. He disregards Geralt’s comment about there being absolutely no noonwraiths lurking in wild meadows as well as his scoff at the innocence of the traveller being lured by the creature. Poetic licence, Geralt. He even chuckles gracefully at the way his tongue slips against his teeth, making him mispronounce a word out of the blue. He’s missed this carelessness and he lets himself enjoy it fully. 

The breeze is pleasantly cool on his face as he looks around in the velvety darkness of the forest, making out the shapes in the underbrush. The fire crackles cheerfully beside him, making it hard to hear the twigs snapping under the witcher’s heavy boots, but Jaskier can almost sense the other’s presence as he comes back with an animal carcass thrown over his back. The stench of blood is sharper than usually, but it’s also less unpleasant. Maybe he’s started to get used to it, Jaskier thinks and the thought makes his face light up. He’s noticed himself adjusting to their nomadic life and he’s thrilled to boast about it to his companion. He’s more alert, even despite his sleep being less restoring than ever, his eyes adjust to the dark quicker, he hears and smells more clearly, as if all his senses made a pact to make him more useful. He could easily get used to that. Geralt drops the prey on the other side of the camp fire and sits down with a sour expression, as if he hasn’t just secured them an awful lot of meat. Jaskier’s stomach grumbles at the thought of the feast ahead and he watches the other skin the animal skilfully. He catches himself thinking of how disturbingly erotic the act appears in his head, those big hands covered in warm blood, cutting away piece by piece… He wants to chastise himself for the thought, but he doesn’t find the words. How embarrassing for a poet, really. He doesn’t realise Geralt’s hands still until the witcher speaks up. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, his voice almost soothingly soft in the cacophony of the burning wood, squishy flesh and insects all around. 

“Yes…” Jaskier replies hesitantly, unsure why it would be questioned. Slowly he notices the little stones and a small branch bruising his knees. Why was he kneeling by the fire? 

“You’re watching me like a starving vulture.” Concern is heavy in Geralt’s voice, but there is a hint of something else there, too. Something even less characteristic of him. 

“I’m watching you like a starving man, thank you very much.” Jaskier brushes off as he leans back to sit on his bedroll. “It’s been forever since I ate and it smells deliciously.”

Geralt frowns and resumes his work without more than a small grunt. Jaskier could swear his medallion flickers a little brighter in the gleam of the fire and he smiles. It still is a gorgeous sight, the glimmer making up for the witcher’s expression. He doesn’t bother himself with the fact he just called the stingy, coppery smell delicious.

His stomach is finally full after he’s devoured far more than his usual cut, but it doesn’t make him feel that gentle sleepiness that normally came with such a sizeable meal. He stirs in his place, deciding maybe he’s just not laying comfortably enough to fall asleep. Not that he’s even thinking of complaining, he’s not really looking forward to another nightmare. He feels like he knows it by heart, after all it’s always the same thing that happens over and over, filling him with terror that’s harder to shake each morning. 

“Will you stop?” 

Geralt’s voice grits against his brain painfully and he’s not really capable of recognising the tone.

“Eventually, I’m sure.” He replies truthfully and huffs as he tries to stay still. He’s so uncomfortable he’d crawl out of his skin if he could, every bump of the ground beneath him almost painful, all the small sounds drilling into his skull. It’s insufferable, the hum of the leaves and rustle of feathers and soft fur, the witcher’s slow but steady heartbeat… His eyes snap open at the realisation he can actually heart Geralt’s heartbeat, but the moonlight nearly blinds him for a moment and makes him lose track of his thoughts. His own heart is beating far too quickly, the pace of it coupled with the creeping fear making him nauseous. 

“What is it now?” Geralt asks in a quiet murmur. 

“What is what?”

“Your heart rate is up.”

“Rude of you to eavesdrop like this. I don’t comment on what your organs are up to.”

He can almost sense the witcher rolling his eyes at his response.

“Spooked myself for a moment, it’s nothing.” He rushes with an explanation, hoping it will be enough. He even forces a small smile to his face, not entirely sure who he’s trying to reassure with it. 

And it seems to be enough as he is met with just a dismissive grunt.


	3. Chapter 3

He’s curled on the bedroll, his blanket almost completely discarded. All hazy and sleepy and visibly content with something that must only exist when he’s in that delightful state of neither here, nor there. He can feel the light on his face, but it’s pleasantly devoid of any warmth. Still night then, he can sleep a little longer… Jaskier smiles softly at the thought of the forest providing him with all those sounds, an orchestra of creatures unaware of their sweet lullaby, yet all of them in perfect harmony with the steady beating of his heart. 

“Both our hearts.” He mumbles breathily, not quite realising he spoke the words instead of just thinking them.

The air is inexplicably heavy around him, seeping through his clothes, sticking to his sickly pale skin. It’s like drowning, but serene. He can smell smoke, the rounded, warm and earthy scent of hickory firewood and a hint of… juniper? He’s not sure. He can smell burnt deer meat, as well as its sun soaked pelt. And fear. Intense to the point of near panic. There’s the second heartbeat, right next to him, its pace reassuringly similar to his own until Jaskier realises what that means. When he opens his eyes and looks over at Geralt, the witcher’s eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide. He can hear a clank of metal and he scrambles to his feet, fear gripping him tightly. Somehow, he feels he _knows_ this scene. He knows what this clearing looks like in the middle of the night, he knows the icy fear within him, he knows how it feels when his own blood dyes his clothes a somewhat exciting shade of red. 

While he stands there, wide-eyed and unable to move, Jaskier watches the witcher closely. He can see even the smallest of muscles that pull Geralt’s face into a mask of hatred, disgust… The pain of the knife slicing his throat open doesn’t even come close to the pain in his heart. It would shatter from the aggressive growl Geralt lets out with the attack, but it’s already torn to shreds by the sight. His eyelids flutter and his stomach sinks and for a moment he feels like he’s drowning again, his blood soaked clothes dragging him down, too heavy for him to ever reach the surface again. As the witcher’s knife cuts his misery short, he’s sure he can hear him curse. And he can hear him call the soon to be lifeless body at his feet a monster. 

All day he can’t shake off the feeling of being watched closely by his witcher. And that’s not a bad thing in and of itself, rather one that he would have welcomed at another time. Now though? Not so much. He can’t bear the thought that he would see Geralt look at him the way he did in his nightmare. For a moment Jaskier thinks that it would kill him just as effectively as a real weapon and while he means it as a joke… Well, he can’t find humour in it. 

He feels too hot in the sun regardless of actual temperature, sweat beading on his forehead while he’s wearing little more than an indecently thin chemise and a pair of slacks, his doublet discarded the moment the sun was high enough for its rays to start warming them up. Geralt even comments on his clothes, saying something about trying to lure a leshy’s wife and Jaskier retorts with a laughter and a protest, making it clear, _again_ , that it’s not their marital status that determines their attractiveness. But the banter is reassuring, it’s such a pleasant constant, no matter what. 

They stop for a meal by a lazy brook and it’s beyond delightful, Jaskier thinks. The water is cold and clear, washing over rounded stones with a murmur more inviting than anything he’s ever heard before. There is no plan of them reaching a town before nightfall, so he manages to convince Geralt to stay by the stream for a little longer than absolutely necessary. The plan hatching in his head makes him oddly thrilled and he devours his meal even faster than usually, still chewing his last bite when he starts to undress. That, of course, earns him a surprised glance and a raised eyebrow but Jaskier couldn’t possibly care about that now that he’s tossed his boots and trousers away, his pale feet already touching the icy pebbles and the water tickling at his ankles. Normally he couldn’t be dragged into water this cold even by force, but now? It feels absolutely wonderful. He doesn’t even bother to resist the temptation and he leaps into the current, submerging himself the moment it’s possible. He can’t really describe it but he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this good. He closes his eyes and lets the cold stream carry away all of his uneasiness, all the fear and discomfort and concern. He’s a little lost in how wonderful it is to have his burden lifted like this, to the point he only registers that Geralt decided to join him in the water when he hears him swear. Jaskier turns to him and laughs cheerfully, seeing that displeased expression again. For a moment he wonders if the other doesn’t actually believe that a smile now and then would kill him. 

“You could have warned me how cold the water is.” Geralt complains and Jaskier shrugs, not really regretting anything. 

“Cold or not, it’s _delightful_.” He argues and moves closer, resting against one of the larger rocks, enjoying the cool touch against his back. 

It’s oddly entertaining to watch his witcher struggle like this, trying to clean himself and clearly longing to get out. 

“I thought you enjoy very different things in life…” Geralt starts, but cuts himself off abruptly. He frowns and looks around, as if looking for whatever disturbed their peace.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks and looks around, his gaze sliding over the same spots as he makes his way over, wanting to be closer in case they’re in some kind of danger.

“It must be the stream. Get out and let’s go.” 

“Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with the stream…”

  
  
“I said get out. Now.”

Jaskier’s ready to pout as he’s told to leave one of his now most favourite places in the world, but then he sees the witcher’s medallion shimmer a little too much and he realises it’s fluttering with a warning, one that would be unwise to disregard. 

Begrudgingly, he collects his belongings and dresses himself up again. He does feel a lot better regardless and if it wasn’t for the fact he’s actually seen the medallion move, he’d suspect Geralt just made this up not to admit that he couldn’t handle the chilly current. 

“So… What’s wrong with the stream? Is it cursed? Is it a lair for a powerful, magical salmon that would eat us alive?”

Geralt looks over to him with a scolding expression but he doesn’t say anything. Not so unlike him, really.

“You don’t know what it was.” Jaskier risks a tease. He doesn’t understand how the medallion works _exactly_ , but that doesn’t stop him from acting like he gets it completely. “Does it really not tell what’s lurking? It would be a lot more useful if it did…” He thinks out loud, glancing at his companion, still in oddly good spirits after his icy bath. 

Geralt still doesn’t say anything, but he slides the medallion under his shirt, as if to hide the fact it’s still very much warning him of magic nearby. 

The warning doesn’t fade for far too long, the metal stilling whole hours away from the water. Which makes it clear that it wasn’t the stream itself, but rather a nearby creature, maybe something that caught their scent and decided to follow along for some time. He tries not to bother himself wondering why he hasn’t noticed anything else out of the ordinary. Maybe it’s the road taking a toll on him, the tiredness dampening his senses somewhat. Just to be on the safe side, Geralt throws in a couple of juniper twigs into their camp fire and then recites a short protection spell. That night he sleeps with his swords, as well as his bard, much closer than normally. 

**Author's Note:**

> my only excuse is that making them suffer is my love language ¯\\_(✿◕‿◕)_/¯
> 
> three cheers to @The_Marron for being the real mvp and helping me through this in multiple ways (from helping me turn a vague idea into kind of a plot, through mythology, archeology and grammar check all the way to cheering me on as i attempt my first multichapter) & this bit applies to literally every chapter of this, written or not yet :) ily, you're the best friend and best beta one could have <3


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